Whenever I meditate on Scripture, I imagine myself watching what is happening, and probably because I “see” with my other senses I also sense the sounds and scents—the “color,” if you will.

Some friends of ours were on a pilgrimage a few years ago, and they visited Gethsemane late at night. They said the breeze rustling through the old olive trees lent an eerie feeling. Our pastor, who had been to the Holy Land before, said that on this trip he was the last to leave the garden, and he was struck by how desolate it must have seemed to Jesus as he struggled alone in this place.